


The Shocks of Adversity

by Mickey_McKeown



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suffering Donald Ressler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mickey_McKeown/pseuds/Mickey_McKeown
Summary: Once again, Ressler must rely on Red to save his life.





	The Shocks of Adversity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aussieokie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussieokie/gifts).



> My Secret Santa gift to the fabulous aussieokie, who likes suffering Ressler just as much as me!
> 
> Title from a George Washington quote: "True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation."

“We’re almost there,” Ressler panted. He pointed to a grey ribbon of road winding through the landscape ahead of them. “Just up the hill and then we’re at the road.”

Reddington didn’t reply, simply focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and attempting to ignore the grating pain in his ribs. The hill barely made the criteria for ‘gently rolling’ but in his current state, Ressler may as well have asked him to scale K2. The FBI agent was a few steps in front of him and glanced back only occasionally to check on Red’s progress. He was grateful for that; it was easier to keep going without the constant scrutiny that he had expected from his companion. 

It was slow going. Ressler had slowed his pace over the trek so that Red could keep up but he could feel his endurance waning, both from his injuries and the complacency that his position had given him. He had little cause to test his physical limits these days and now he was paying for that. Stumbling slightly, he righted himself before he fell, not trusting his ability to get up if he were to hit the ground. Ressler looked around at the criminal as he tripped, his gaze drawn by the soft curse. He grabbed Red’s arm to steady him and continued on, supporting the other man up the sharper incline towards the road. Red’s footing was uncertain and, several times, he stumbled, having to use Ressler to steady himself.

It may have been a sign of nearby civilisation, but the road was as deserted as the fields that they had just cleared. Street lights provided some illumination, but there was no sign of either car or lorry for miles. 

“We need to find a phone. There must be a rescue point somewhere along a road this size.”

Red nodded reluctantly, seeing the logic in Ressler’s words, but dreading the further distance. “Let’s keep going,” he sighed.

To his surprise, Ressler shook his head. “No. You’re injured; I’ll find a phone and come back. You still have that gun?”

The criminal reached for the handgun, drawing it from its place in his waistband. He held it out, showing Ressler that it had a full magazine and paused. His palm was stained with blood. Confused, he stared at the red liquid for a moment, trying to discern its origin. He wasn’t bleeding, that had been a pale reassurance back in their prison, meaning that the blood must have come from one of the guards or…

“Donald?” Reddington’s voice was calm, soft, but there was sharpened steel cutting through the velvet. “Are you hurt?”

Ressler shook his head, dismissing Red’s inquiry. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question, Donald. Are you injured? Are you bleeding?” Red’s normal confidence and assertiveness had returned to his manner. He locked eyes with the FBI agent. “Answer me.”

The obstinate silence that met his words was answer enough. Reddington’s lips thinned in displeasure.

“Show me.”   
The command was met with a raised eyebrow, but Ressler acquiesced, seeing the futility in arguing with the Concierge of Crime. He drew aside his jacket, showing Red the large bloodstain on his shirt shining wetly in the light of the street lamps. 

“I used my tie to stop the bleeding; the walk must have aggravated it.” 

Red’s eyebrows drew together in a frown as he examined the stain. It covered the left side of Ressler’s stomach, spreading from a tear in his shirt just below his ribs. Blood still oozed steadily from the wound. 

“It’s not that bad,” Ressler protested, weakly. 

The evidence was, however, quite to the contrary. Reddington could see from his cursory examination that the wound had likely caused some internal damage, and the FBI agent’s stubbornness and unwillingness to accept his own limits could only stave off the consequences for so long. He could tell that those consequences were catching up now; Ressler’s skin looked pale and clammy, and his breathing came in painful gasps. 

“You need help, Donald,” Red told him. His voice was gentle, the sharp tone having disappeared the moment he saw the severity of the wound. 

To his surprise, Ressler didn’t argue. “I know. And so do you. Which is why I need to get to a phone, and we’re just wasting time standing here.” 

“No.” Red shook his head and held up a hand, forestalling any protests. “You’re still bleeding. If you exert yourself any more, you’ll lose even more blood and you passing out by the side of the road isn’t going to help either of us.” 

“Then what do we do? Just wait here and hope that neither of us dies before a car comes by?”

“You really do have a flair for the dramatic, Donald,” Red chuckled. “No, I was thinking of a more proactive solution. I am in no danger of expiring any time soon; my injuries are painful, but certainly not life-threatening. Yours, on the other hand, are.”

“So what do we do?” Ressler’s voice held an edge of irritation, suggesting that he was reaching the end of his patience with Reddington.

“Really, Donald, isn’t it quite obvious? I suppose I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that blood loss has dulled your wits.” He smirked at Ressler’s increasingly annoyed expression. “I’ll go to find the phone. You will stay here and attempt to not bleed out before I return.” 

“No.” Ressler shook his head. “That’s out of the question.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice, my friend.” Red’s voice held a surprising amount of compassion. He put a hand on Ressler’s shoulder. “You need to sit down. Here.” He guided the agent into a sitting position on a conveniently placed log and knelt beside him, a twinge in his ribs reminding him of his own injuries. “I’ll see if I can bandage this any better than your earlier efforts.”

 

He pulled aside Ressler’s shirt to reveal his tie wrapped haphazardly over the wound and doing very little towards its purpose of staunching the blood. The wound was not a neat stab wound, but rather a ragged tear, as though the blade had been serrated. The location was equally worrying; it was, Red thought with growing concern, in such a place as to have likely damaged the spleen. If that was the case, Ressler was in serious trouble. 

None of these concerns showed on his face as he carefully redressed the wound, replacing Ressler’s tie with his own. Not Zegna this time, but a bespoke Turnbull and Asser, handmade in Jermyn Street. He would mourn its loss later, however, once the situation was not so dire. 

Once the bandaging was secured, Reddington glanced up at Ressler, taking in the eyes closed in pain and the sheen of sweat across his face. He reached a hand up to feel the agent’s forehead, trepidation at what the findings might be making his motions hesitant. His skin was cool, a sure sign of shock, and Red felt his heart clench in unexpected fear. It was an emotion that he rarely felt, usually only in regard to his closest companions, such as Dembe and Liz. To now experience such a feeling towards a man whom he would once have considered a mere annoyance, a plaything to needle when he was bored, was startling. What was more so, was the fact that the emotion was not unwelcome. 

“How are you feeling, Donald?” 

Ressler opened his eyes and regarded the criminal with glazed and weary eyes. “Not good.” The admission was just as concerning as the physical symptoms; Red knew that the stoic FBI agent would never admit weakness under any normal circumstances. “Adrenaline’s wearing off. I think I might be going into shock.” 

Red squeezed his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “You’re going to be fine, my friend. I need you to relax now, and just hold on until I return. I’ll get help, I promise.” He stood and, picking a direction based solely on a guess, began to walk along the road.

“Reddington?”

He turned back to see Ressler’s gaze following him and saw the man’s pale lips twitch up into a small smile. 

“Good luck.”

He nodded, feeling another swell of unexpected emotion, and swallowed down the lump in his throat along with the nagging thought that this might be the last time he saw Donald Ressler alive. 

If there were indeed some deity handing out good and bad luck like sweets on Halloween, Red had finally got the gummy worms after hours of candy corn. After just fifteen minutes of walking, he came across a roadside rescue phone and dialled Cooper’s direct number.

The director answered after five interminable rings. “This is Harold Cooper.”

Red’s relief made his head spin, but he collected himself enough to speak. “Harold! I need your help.”

“Reddington? What..?”

Red interrupted, his words spilling out in uncharacteristic desperation. “I need you to send medical help. Can you track this phone call?”

“Of course.” There was a rustle of activity on Cooper’s end of the phone. “What’s happened? Are you injured?”

“Donald’s hurt.” A moment of hesitation. “It’s bad, Harold.” 

Reddington’s words, combined with the raw concern lacing them stopped Cooper in his tracks and there was a long beat of silence. “Aram’s tracking your location now and Keen is organising a medical team to be sent out immediately.” A triumphant yell in the background announced Aram’s success. “We’ve got you and we’re heading out now. Your location is about half an hour away from us, so just hold tight. We’re on our way.”

Reddington hung up the phone, holding onto the reassurance that help was coming and Cooper’s unspoken, but implicit, command to take care of Ressler. That task foremost in his mind, he started back towards where he had left the FBI agent. Ignoring the pain that stabbed through his ribs at every footfall, Red pushed his pace into a jog; the fifteen minute walk turned into nine on the return journey. 

Ressler remained where he had been left, now half lying across the log. Red sank to his knees beside him, breathing hard, and gently shook his shoulder. Receiving no response, he tried again, harder. The agent was unconscious, deeply so. Reddington pressed his fingers to his neck to feel his pulse: too slow, skin too cold, too much blood loss. He spread his jacket over the motionless form and returned his hand to Ressler’s pulse, reassuring himself that the man still lived. 

The seconds ticked by too slowly, as did Ressler’s heart, struggling to push so little blood around his body. Unable to see the rise and fall of his breathing, Red had placed his unoccupied hand on the agent’s chest. Each breath took longer than the last. Ressler was dying, and, this time, there was no conveniently placed, well stocked first aid kit available. All Red could do was sit and wait and hope. 

When the sirens came, he breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes, forcing down the flood of emotion that rose in his heart. They were quickly surrounded by activity, a sharp juxtaposition with the previously silent road. Cooper was calling his name, Lizzie was on top of them in a heartbeat, leaping from one of the cars before it had even fully stopped, gripping Ressler’s hand, pleading with him, an insistent mantra of “you’re okay, hold on, you’re going to be okay”. The medics descended upon them, then, shining a light into Ressler’s eyes, slipping an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, checking his pulse. They moved Red and Liz aside none too gently and lifted their patient onto a stretcher, rushing him towards the waiting ambulance. 

Red began to follow them but was stopped by Cooper. “Let them help him,” the director ordered, his voice soft. “He’s in good hands.” He guided Reddington gently towards a car with Liz in tow. “We’ll follow them to the hospital and wait there for news. Okay?”

Red nodded mutely, suddenly exhausted and allowed himself to be herded into the backseat of the car. The journey was quick, the lights and sirens allowing them to flout all speed limits. Cooper dropped Liz and Red at the entrance to the hospital and they hurried in while he went to park the car. 

Ressler had already been taken to an examination room by the time they arrived. Liz’s FBI status allowed them some special privilege, and they were taken to a private room with an assurance that they would be kept up to date with all developments. They sat in silence. Red’s exertions throughout the day were catching up with him and, despite his efforts to remain awake, he could feel his eyes closing against his will. 

His dreams were filled with red. Images of a metal table mingled with a log, trees and bulletproof glass warred for prominence, the only common theme was the blood covering his hands. He awoke with a sharp intake of breath and a wince as his bruised ribs protested the awkward position in which he had fallen asleep. He glanced around and saw Liz watching him with concern.

“Lizzie?” He ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the lines of tiredness and worry that had etched themselves there over the last day. “How long was I asleep? Donald..?”

Liz interrupted. “You were asleep for about eight hours. Cooper and I agreed that you needed it so we didn’t wake you up. Ressler’s out of surgery.”

“How is he?” Red asked, his tone tightly controlled. 

“He’s going to be okay.” Liz smiled and Red felt a knot of tension release in his chest. “He’ll need some recovery time, but he’ll be fine.” She regarded him, eyes full of understanding and compassion. “You can go and see him if you want?”

Red nodded. “Thank you, Lizzie.” He squeezed her hand in gratitude, getting to his feet and following her to a room. She let him sit beside the bed and then left with a final glance at the bed’s occupant.

Ressler looked only marginally better than he had by the roadside. That improvement was thanks to the replacement of the bloodied shirt and makeshift bandage with a clean hospital gown. He was still unnaturally pale, and the various monitoring equipment did little to present an image of health. The monitors, however, showed a heartbeat stronger and healthier than the one Red had so desperately felt for earlier, and he could see the steady, reassuring rise and fall of his chest as he breathed without effort. 

Red felt a wave of relief crash over him and he allowed himself a true, genuine smile. “We did it, my friend,” he murmured. “We survived.” 

He settled back in the chair and once again felt the pull of sleep. This time, however, he didn’t resist and allowed himself to fall into a sleep devoid of horror and blood. They had survived. Just like they always would.


End file.
